• Is this a fully theatrical "drama"? Does it contain all
the elements essential to theatre?

• Since by nature scripts leave out so much of theatre, is it possible
to reconstruct the "theatre" underlying this bare text?

• The text begins and ends abruptly in the midst of both plot and myth.
Can this be considered a coherent piece of drama?

• If this is not theatre, what is it? To what can this dithyramb be
compared, if anything, in our repertoire of rituals or spectacles?

• After you read Euripides' The Bacchae in the next reading assignment,
see if you can see the similarities between dithyramb and tragedy which led
Aristotle to posit an evolutionary connection between these genres. Was he
right? If not, what misled Aristotle?

Introduction: This dithyramb was discovered with five others
on an Egyptian papyrus at about the turn of the last century (ca. 1896). We
know for certain several things about this poem. It is written in a lyric mode
and intended for performance. Its text is complete—there are other poems
by the same author before and after it—and it was titled in antiquity
Theseus. But the form and nature of these dithyrambs were not at all what scholars
expected to see, given Aristotle's discussion of dithyrambs in The Poetics.
They expected something more patently similar to tragedy. Although every one
of the surviving dithyrambs employs choruses, they involve no real character
development, no plot to speak of, and they are quite short. The one below resembles
tragedy the closest of the six: it has a chorus, a character who serves as a
messenger, and the song is cast as a series of responsive exchanges between
them.

We also know the author of these dithyrambs, Bacchylides, but unfortunately
we know little more about him. He lived and wrote in the early Classical Age
and is said to have composed poems for Hieron of Syracuse in 476 BCE. The last
datable reference to him comes fairly late, around 452 BCE, so his career as
a poet could have begun only around 500 BCE at the earliest. But, since we know
tragedy was in existence by 530 BCE and probably somewhat before then, Bacchylides
cannot have composed the early type of dithyramb to which Aristotle refers when
he says that tragedy arose from dithyramb. Aristotle may, in fact, be referring
to an earlier kind of dithyramb that was altogether different from its later
namesake, which renders Bacchylides' works useless to those investigating Aristotle's
thesis about the origins of tragedy. But that would entail a major change in
dithyramb within one generation and it seems unlikely that it could have done
so and still retained its name.

The story of this particular dithyramb concerns the Athenian mythological hero
Theseus (whose exploits we will follow more fully in a later reading). In his
youth Theseus performed labors much like Hercules'. He slew a strongman named
Sinis, killed a marauding sow, threw a brigand named Sciron off a cliff, out-wrestled
a wrestler named Cercyon, and, perhaps his most famous labor, killed a madman
named Procrustes (or Procoptes) who tied people to a bed and, if they were too
long for it, cut off their feet, and if too short, hammered them out. This last
task gives us the adjective "Procrustean" which means "drastic,
designed to obtain strict conformity by violent measures." All these exploits
were carried out as the young Theseus walked from his birthplace to Athens where
he would eventually be recognized as the long-lost son of the reigning king
Aegeus. Ultimately, however, Theseus would accidentally bring about his own
father's death and inherit his father's kingdom.

In this dithyramb Aegeus, referred to only as "King," confronts a
frenzied chorus who has heard of Theseus' exploits and imminent arrival.

CHORUSO King of holy Athens,
Lord of rich-living Ionians,
Why now does the bronze bell ring,
The trumpet sound the song of war?
Has someone evil overleaped
The boundaries of our land,
A general, a man?
Or bandits planning harm
Against our shepherds' will to steal
Their herds of cattle forcibly?
Why then do you tear your heart?
Tell us! For I think that if to any mortal
The aid of able men there was,
Of young men, it is to you,
O son of Pandion and Creusa!

KINGJust now there came the windy way
A messenger on foot, up the path from Corinth.
Unutterable deeds he tells of a mighty
Man: he slew that arch-criminal
Sinis who was greatest of mortals
In strength, offspring of Kronos
And son of the Lytaean earthshaker.
And that sow, the man-eater, in the meadows
Of Cremmyon and that reckless man
Sciron he slaughtered.
The wrestling-school of Cercyon
He closed, and Polypemus' mighty
Hammer Procoptes now has
Dropped, meeting a better
Man. It is this I fear, how it will end!

CHORUSWho is this man? From where? What does
He say? What company does he keep?
Is he with hostile forces,
Leading an army immense?
Or alone with his servants
He comes, like a merchant, a wanderer
To other people's land,
Strong and mighty as well,
And so bold that he has a strength
Greater than men like
These? Or perhaps a god rouses him,
To bring suit on unsuitable men?
You know, it's not easy always to
Act and not to run into injustice.
Everything in the long run will end.

KINGTo him two men alone accompany,
He says, and about his gleaming shoulders
Hangs a sword . . . <the end of the line is missing>,
And in his hands two polished spears,
A well-made dog-skin cap from
Sparta on his head and tawny mane,
A shirt of purple
Around his chest, and a sheep-skin
Thessalian jacket. His eyes
Reflect volcanic Etna,
Blood-red flame. He's said a boy
Of tender years; the toys of Ares
Own his thoughts, and War and
Crashing brass and battle.
He's said to seek the love of splendor, Athens!

Epilogue: Consider the comments
of A.P. Burnett, a modern commentator on Bacchylides' poetry (note):

How did the performance end? When singers were allowed to
make their farewells to patron and audience, and so to get their feet back
on the ground of actuality, they simply march out of the dancing space. These
performers, however, were different from those of every other song that survives
from . . . Bacchylides, because when their song finished they were still caught
in their fictional situation, still on the razor's edge. If they simply turned
and took themselves off, the effect must have been curiously anticlimactic,
and it may be that their exit was covered by another more urgent trumpet call,
or a warning roll of drums. Some have even supposed that just as the music
stopped a group of actual ephebes (i.e. young men from Athens) burst in, ready
to perform the exercises of their annual review. . . .

The Bacchylidean scene . . . shows neither motion nor decision.
Its dialogue suggests a play, but the stunning effect of this piece comes
from the fact that in a situation that calls for action, no one makes a move.
What is more, though the nameless messenger who would naturally bring this
news has been replaced by a particular king, there is no characterization
here. . . . The king repeats his information as if he were telling a nightmare
that still has hold of him; he makes no gesture, he only says, "I am
afraid" . . . . The song does not imitate action, and so it is not tragic
in the Aristotelian sense, but it does imitate mortal blindness and the innate
ambiguity of all worldly events, and to this extent it treats the stuff that
tragic action is made of.